Fighting Temptation
by mariu100
Summary: In the weeks right before and after Brennan finds her way back home with Christine, Booth is faced with some tough choices. Can he make the right ones-and does he even know what those are anymore?
1. Chapter 1

He walks by the place without giving it a second thought, his head bent down and his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jeans, barely feeling the damp, biting wind that has been steadily picking up for the last half hour. And then something catches his eye and against his better judgment he takes a cautious step back, peering through the dirty windows. The mellow luster of beaten-up green felt stares back at him, and he's sure it's calling his name.

A pool hall, one of those old-fashioned, no-frills kinds, the kind he knows like the back of his hand. And just when he's starting to think that it's safe to take a closer look at the ragtag crew playing inside, he feels a warm rush go through him and his heart begins to pound hard.

He was young-probably wasn't even in middle school-when his dad sent him to a dive just like this one to pick up his daily numbing potion, because he was tired and in a bad mood and he didn't feel like getting it himself tonight. It wasn't a good day. Were there any of those even left?

And standing alone on this dark, slick sidewalk tonight, after having once again wandered the streets for hours in search of information that never quite pans out, he feels exactly like he did back then; afraid and drawn in all at once, and like he wants to be anywhere but home, and this place looks as good as any to keep him from getting there.

That first time-it still seems like it happened yesterday.

It was The Four Aces, just around the corner from his old house.

_Make it a six-pack of Schlitz, Seeley-you got that straight? Schlitz, six-pack, ice cold; don't mess it up. And get back right away._

He remembers being torn between the terror of walking all by himself into a place that had bars on windows he couldn't yet reach and a grate on the door that wouldn't let you see who or what was inside, and sheer gratitude that he was getting the chance to leave the house, even if it was just a temporary reprieve.

Mrs. Ryan was keeping Jared overnight because it was young Patrick Ryan's 5th birthday and he wanted a sleepover to seal the deal. Even though Jared and Patrick weren't the best of friends and never would be, no matter how close to each other they lived, he figured that Mrs. Ryan felt bad leaving Jared out of the mix. All of the other boys were probably going to end up running and screaming out in the yard at some point and Jared was bound to find out, and Mrs. Ryan always had a soft spot for his younger brother.

He, on the other hand, didn't get an invite-he was too old. Maybe Mrs. Ryan didn't think he needed the time away from home as much.

Instead, he got to sit on the couch in the living room all by himself, waiting for his dad to get back from the barbershop, turning the TV on almost as loud as it would go to one of the few nighttime shows he was allowed to watch that didn't involve some type of ball getting thrown around. He kept ratcheting the volume up higher and higher, hoping to drown out the forbidding silence that had snuck in the minute the sun started going down, until he finally heard his dad's keys jangling in the front door. The sound went back down fast.

Who could have guessed that his home would end up turning into such a threatening place, with mysterious noises and darting shadows taunting him whenever he was alone, when it had been a safe haven of sorts before?

Not perfect, never that, but even with all the craziness that sometimes went on in their household, his mom had somehow managed to make him feel like she would always be standing between him and whatever bad stuff was out there in the world, and sometimes way closer than that, too.

But that part of his life is over and done with.

Their family now consists of a man overburdened by guilt and grief and demons from an irrelevant war that no one wants to talk about-a man who works late, because that's when all the working folk want to get their hair cut and he needs the money and maybe he doesn't want to go home either-and two young boys who are learning way too fast how to fend for themselves.

_The Four Aces_-got it.

So he says he'll do it, swears he won't screw it up, and maybe that'll make his dad happy and the rest of the night will go okay between just the two of them.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hey Les, look at what the cat just dragged in._

As soon as he walks through the grated front door of _The Four Aces_ a shadowy figure in the back begins to point a mocking finger in his direction, calling him out, and he turns his head to find an older man behind a bar counter frowning at him with obvious displeasure.

"Listen kid," the bartender begins as if by rote, his lined face betraying years of late nights and long hours, "this place is for adults only. So go home, okay? It's gotta be close to your bedtime; your parents are gonna be worried. You shouldn't be out all by yourself at night-bad things can happen. Come on" he says, waving a hand dismissively towards the front door when there's no sign of retreat, "off you go."

But he bucks up his courage, squeezing and thumbing the life out of the ten dollar bill his dad has given him for good luck, and starts reciting the words he's been practicing over and over in his mind since he left the house.

"Sir, my dad told me to get him a six-pack of Schlitz." He's hoping he got the order right, or there'll be hell to pay later.

"Really cold, please" he remembers belatedly.

The bartender looks him over carelessly, with the jaundiced eye of someone who's been turning away hooky-playing kids from his place of business for years. No way does he believe him.

He senses the failure coming right along with his dad's disappointment, when he suddenly remembers the rest of what he was supposed to say.

"He told me to tell you that I'm Hank Jr.'s son and it's okay to give me the stuff. He says he's too tired to come by tonight…it was really busy at the barbershop." That last part he throws in himself to make the story sound more convincing, although it probably isn't true. From the comments his dad's been making lately about how money's tight and how they can only buy the things they really need, business has been lousy.

When he mentions his dad's name the pool playing around him stops and the cavern-like room goes quiet, and it feels like every hardened, bloodshot eye there is trained on him, on Hank Booth Jr.'s son.

He knows that look. He sees it all the time now, and he hates it-it's pity. Just like he hates being in the spotlight, especially over things that weren't-and still aren't-within his power to control.

The bartender finally relents and cracks a smile, but there's pity in his eyes too.

"Hank Jr.s son, huh? Must be Seeley, the oldest one. You're gonna have to wait a minute son. Willy's throwing out the trash in the alley. When he comes back in, I'll tell him to go down to the cellar and get you what your dad wants. I can't go down them steps no more. We keep the six-packs in the big cooler down there-no room up here. You wanna soda or something while you're waiting?"

He crumples the bill in his hand-his dad's expecting all his change back.

"No thank you." But his eyes can't seem to leave the shiny soda dispenser right there in front of him.

"It's on the house." The man pours out a Coke into a skinny glass, pushing it across the polished wood surface of the bar. The clear ice inside sparkles brightly through the bubbles, making him feel a thirst he didn't know he had when he first walked in.

"That means it's free, son" the bartender adds with a nod and a gentler voice when there's no move towards the glass. "Take it-it's alright. You can sit here for a little while and drink it."

So he ends up perched high on a barstool and takes his glass, sipping it with a growing mixture of pride and awe. He's in forbidden grown-up territory now, he knows, and that only adds to the appeal of tonight's adventure.

Wait 'til he tells Jared.

On second thought, no. Because Jared would probably tell Pops and Pops wouldn't be happy. He's heard the arguments between his dad and his grandpa about stuff like this before, about how he and his brother should be watched after better, not be on the loose and on their own so much, and he doesn't want to get his dad into any more trouble.

He loves his dad-even if lately that feeling has been tainted with other emotions that are just as powerful and not nearly as nice; flashes of ugly, twisted things that on some days are almost unbearably frightening.

The Coke tastes good, sweet and cold, but as he's taking another gulp it dawns on him that it's getting harder and harder to breathe. The air all around him is dripping thick and stale with the stench of thousands of cigarettes, both old and new. It's a smell that seems to be seeping from the walls and the carpeting and just about every other surface in the place, along with the patrons; he must have been too distracted to notice before. No wonder his dad's clothes stink so much when he comes home on some nights, even though he tells them not to smoke because it's bad for you. He's warned both of his sons that he'll tan their hides if he ever catches them doing it and they believe him, so they've never tried-their dad's a pretty intimidating sight when he's mad.

Well, his dad was right-the smoke is nasty, burning his eyes and throat, but the way it melts with the overhead lights makes all those green-topped tables in front of him look something like magic, with the colored balls on top all neat and tidy appearing to be floating on an ocean of grass. He can't tear his eyes away from those tables; he would really love playing on one of those things one day.

No way he's even thinking of leaving the safety of his chair and Les' protective circle tonight, though.

So he keeps on sipping his drink, leaning into the bar, and little by little time begins to stop; those pool tables seem to have put him under a spell, whispering all the while for him to come closer, telling him that if he does they can make all his problems fall right into their dark pockets.

The tension he didn't even know was wracking his body ever since his dad sent him out of the house begins to ebb slowly, and for once he finds he's got no worries-he's suddenly content with his life, even to the point of forgetting that in a few minutes he'll have to go back home to resume the daily grind.

It's an amazing feeling, and there's an unvoiced wish in his head that things could stay this way forever, just him and those pool tables drifting lazily over the mess of his life. No burdens, no responsibilities, no fear-just him and the game.


	3. Chapter 3

And just when he's been lulled into believing that things can stay this way indefinitely, calm and distant and comfortable, the fleeting illusion of happiness is shattered to smithereens by the jarring _whack_ of a cue stick slamming into a ball. It's a hollow, clicky sound that resonates in his ears over and over as reality kicks back into gear and the room comes alive with players once again.

They've forgotten all about him, and he's glad. He likes it when people aren't looking at him, taking notice of him for all the wrong reasons.

One solid hit after another and the balls on the table nearest to him are disappearing fast, sometimes two at a time. It's exciting to follow the progression of the game, seeing how one ball tells the others just where to go. After a while, his eyes look up from the table to sneak a curious peek at the man who's doing all that expert shooting; tall and muscled and a little scary, with his scraggly, way past five-o'clock shadow and greasy, unkempt dirty-blond hair hanging too long down the back of his neck.

His dad wouldn't approve-he hates those holdover types from the hippie days, and it cuts into his business.

But no matter what the guy looks like, he's good-really good-and he can't help but feel a surge of admiration at the way he's wielding that cue, moving confidently from one spot to another, unerringly making shot after shot after shot over the frayed green surface of the table.

By the time the last ball is all set to go in, he realizes that the rest of the people in the pool hall have been watching the action right alongside him, because apparently everyone else thinks that the shooter is pretty amazing too. And when the game finally ends, they begin whooping it up and clapping the winner on the back.

_It's definitely_ _your_ _lucky, lucky day, Vinnie_, everyone seems to be proclaiming at once.

He can't remember if the other guy even got a chance to play.

"Lucky bastard," the loser says under his breath as he hands over a roll of bills.

It looks like it's a lot of money. _A lot _of money. It would be nice to be the one getting to hold it, to spend it, to be the one not having to worry about penny-pinching every day. Tonight's actually been quite the eye-opening experience; a couple of minute's worth of effort, and you get to go home with spending money you didn't have when you first woke up in the morning. Maybe not just effort though. What you really need is skill, which can be acquired, and luck, which can't-it comes and goes how it pleases.

He's still daydreaming about that green pile of cash and what _he_ would do with it when Vinnie catches him staring and smiles, a smile that doesn't quite make it all the way up his face.

"Hey Les, how about letting the kid there have a shot? What do you think, kid?" he asks in a laid-back tone that reeks of condescension. "You ever play pool before?"

He shakes his head; this is the closest he's ever gotten to a real pool table, not anything like those pretend ones that some of his friends have in their moldy basements all covered up with junk and dust and odds and ends.

"Betcha a dollar you can't sink a ball into one of the pockets on your first try."

It's a taunt, and a challenge.

And as intimidated as he is by Vinnie and all his posturing, he's finding that he's also very, very tempted by that offer. Because they may all assume that he's only a boy, but he knows that's changing fast; and maybe, if he really puts his mind to it, he can just catch them all off their guards and prove to each and every one of those pitying, disbelieving eyes inside that pool hall that they got him all wrong. No matter what, no one needs to feel sorry for Seeley Booth.


	4. Chapter 4

At first Vinnie looks like he's willing to hang around quietly while he makes up his mind, but then the player's patience seems to wane. He begins grabbing striped and colored balls from the sides of the table, throwing them back on top, randomly pointing at one when they finish rolling around.

"That one. See if you can do it. It's only a dollar, Hank Jr.'s son."

The white ball goes back on the table last, close, but not too close, to the striped ball that's already been singled out.

He can hear Les talking, saying something like "leave the kid alone, Vinnie" from behind the bar, but he, he feels like he wants to do it, to take that guy up on his bet, if only to wipe that know-it-all look off his face. He's decided that he really doesn't like this Vinnie guy after all, no matter how great at pool everyone thinks he is.

The deal needs a little more by way of rethinking, though; if he goes on ahead with it, he can end up winning a dollar and keeping it to himself, which would be good, or losing part of the money he's got and getting an angry lecture from his dad when he tells him he must have dropped some of the change on the street by accident. If that happens, it's definitely coming out of his allowance and he might never be sent out of the house on a run like this again.

And that would be bad because, no matter how awkward it feels to be in this place, he's still sure that he wants to come back.

The offer's still buzzing around in his head when the skin on his neck starts to crawl, a sure sign that he's being watched. One quick turn of the head confirms that all eyes are right back on him, just like before, and that pity has turned into something he likes even less-they're playing with him.

It's not mean, but they're all probably waiting to have a little laugh at his expense. He's not a grown-up, not yet, but that doesn't mean he's dumb.

When Vinnie makes it clear with a smart-assed grin that he's in no mood to stop, Les chimes in once again, more sternly this time.

"Come on-stop messing with the kid and let him go home."

And as if to drive home the point, the six-pack for his dad arrives on top of the counter in a brown paper bag and they give him his change back. He could just leave, right now, and there wouldn't be an issue anymore. It would probably be the smart thing to do.

Except for the fact that Vinnie won't leave it alone.

"C'mon, kid. You wanna try it, or you wanna go home" he asks, making the word 'home' sound like it's a place for sissies, when he and Jared both know that the exact opposite is true. No one who doesn't live there can possibly understand that lately his house has become both a battleground and a minefield, and that every day there requires survival skills that he never knew he even had_._

The cue stick is being held in front of him now by way of a dare, just inches from his face. Vinnie's convinced that he's an easy mark, and that maybe he could use some kind of lesson in the process of getting fleeced.

Well, it's true that he's never played pool before, but he knows he's an almost perfect shot at just about everything else; basketball, hockey, football-you name it. Hitting targets is probably one of the few God-given talents he was born with, and he's proud of it; well that one, and reading people. That last skill's been honed to death purely out of necessity, though, and not just for kicks and glory. It's a kind of sixth sense that has kept both him and his brother out of trouble many a time.

But the bottom line is that he's got steady fingers and near perfect eyesight. So taking Vinnie up on his bet might be risky, but it's not stupid.

"Sure" he finally says, pressing the set of loose bills in his pocket for good luck again. He's not leaving now, no way, because this is starting to feel like a fight, and Seeley Joseph Booth has never backed away from a fight.

So he takes the cue stick and there's immediate snickering in the room when his opponent-he seems even taller and more menacing up close, smelling of beer and dried sweat-takes it right back and has to show him how to hold it correctly.

"Now remember, the white ball can't go in, or you owe me that dollar."

The pressure keeps building while Vinnie, reclining against the bar counter looking bored, waits it out. Angles and pitfalls are more or less taken into account in the short amount of time he feel he has before they start giving him grief, and after circling the table once he winds up taking a shot, his pulse racing wildly, hoping against hope that he made it.

But as much as he wants it to happen, it doesn't; his nerves and inexperienced fingers have sold him out, and the tip of the cue stick somehow ends up grinding against the green felt, forcing the white ball to jump off the table and land with a loud series of clatters on the floor. More dry laughter starts coming out from behind the curtain of smoke, and he's never felt so humiliated and small. He should have left when he got his change.

Just as he knew would happen, Vinnie holds his hand out right away, expecting his payout with a triumphant "I knew you couldn't do it" look written all over his face that makes him want to punch the guy right in the gut. It's a new sensation for him, this pervasive feeling of anger that of late has him wanting to lash out blindly with his fists whenever he's hurting; there's been more than a few close calls at school already which almost resulted in disastrous calls to his dad, and he figures it's just a matter of time before it actually happens. But for now, he ends up taking a deep breath and keeping his cool, because this one's a fight he knows he can't win-not today, anyway. He digs reluctantly into his pocket for one of his singles.

The money hasn't changed hands when another player steps into the bright circle of light that surrounds their table.

"Come on, Vinnie, give the kid another chance" he hears the man say in a sloppy voice, a voice that sounds just like his dad's when he's been sitting around their house for too long.

"Yeah Vinnie" barks another, "let him take another shot-he wasn't even holding the damn thing the right way."

The first guy walks in front of him and puts another cue stick into his hand, guiding it firmly with his own over the table.

"_That's_ how you do it, you see kid, or else you'll never make your shot. Got it?" the stranger asks, taking the cue back.

He nods-he gets it, but it's a little too late for lessons now. He's already lost.

The demands for a rematch, though, are growing all around him even as he gets ready to give in; there's a lot more of them all of a sudden and they're getting louder.

Vinnie, for one, doesn't look pleased with all the heckling; at this point, he probably just wants to get rid of him so he can get back to playing for some real money. He's apparently grown tired of their little cat and mouse game, and now that he's become part of the entertainment too he doesn't seem to like it so much-but the peer pressure mounts until he's grudgingly pushed into saving face. The stick gets shoved back into his hands without much grace.

"You heard them," Vinnie says without a trace of his earlier laidback attitude; "take another shot-and don't scratch the table again."

The white ball comes back out on the table.

He knows everyone's waiting to see how the scene plays out, maybe with a little less sympathy for his opponent this time, he senses, and all at once it's as if he's right at the end of a tie game at the park district's rink; things can either stay the same, or change in his favor with a flick of the wrist. He's heading for the goal at a million miles an hour with a hockey puck zigzagging wildly in front of him, his skates leaving behind trails of shaved ice as they slice on ahead, while a bevy of anxious parents and peers holds their breaths in the stands.

He concentrates harder-way harder-than he did before, but he also makes himself relax, because he knows that when you're all tense the things you want the most are least likely to happen.

He can do this; he knows he can do it this time.


	5. Chapter 5

And when he finally goes for the shot, the white ball stays on the table and the colored one goes in. He hears cheers and clapping, and he forces himself to look up at Vinnie.

"You owe me a dollar," he says, purposefully omitting the 'sir' that usually accompanies all of his requests. He stares at the guy straight in the eyes-and for a second, it feels like his knees are about to shake the rest of him right off his feet.

"Yeah Vinnie, give him his dollar" the helper from before yells.

But his new sworn enemy shakes his head. "Not so fast, kid. I gave you an extra chance, and you owe me another shot; _then_ you can have your money. Now you have to make _this_ one go into the pocket. Think you can do that?" he asks with a sneer.

He's setting it up so that now there's another ball standing between the white one and the one that has to go in. It's a way harder shot, he knows, and there's a good chance he won't be able to do it.

"Vinnie, give the kid his money and let him go" the bartender adds in a scolding tone. "It's late-you're gonna get his dad all mad at him." The bartender clearly understands where his dad's coming from these days.

The man brushes off the warning, standing his ground. "Think you can do it or you worried about your daddy?" he asks by way of a challenge. The dark, unfriendly look in his eyes has taken on an even darker hue.

"Tell you what-you make it, I give you _five_ bucks. You don't, you owe me five. Deal?"

That's just about all the change he has left-his dad'll belt him hard for losing that much money-it won't just bad a scolding anymore. But right there and then he decides he has to do it, because he _really_ hates this guy who's been making a sport out of him since he first walked in. His grandpa was a military policeman and his dad's flown jets in the war, and _no one_ messes with a Booth.

The bartender walks towards him from behind the counter, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Seeley, son, it's time to go home."

He doesn't want to. He looks around the room one more time.

"It's okay, I'll do it" he says taking the stick back, and all of a sudden he's not anxious anymore. If he loses, he loses and he'll take his lumps, but he's not backing down. It's become a matter of principle.

He takes an extra good look down the table, doing his best to line himself up with it, even if he practically has to sling the stick over his shoulder to get the shot he wants.

The room's quiet again, and he can feel that the mood of the crowd has definitely turned this time around. They're rooting for him for real now-he's the good guy and they want him to win.

It's the first time he prays to win at anything. He knows it's a bad thing and that his mom and Pops would be angry because they taught him that God doesn't take sides like that-but he does it anyway.

This tap is more forceful, more controlled than the one before, and he's watching with wide-eyes and his heart beating in his throat as the white ball hits the solid one and that one hits the striped one dead on. It goes in, nice and straight, and the other two stay put on the table.

It's his turn now to taste the sweetness that comes with any personal victory; it's him getting slapped on the back, being doled out the hard-won congratulations and the smiles. He's never, _never_ felt so validated in his whole life. It's been a while since anyone other than his grandpa's had anything nice to say about him and what makes it even better is knowing that he's earned what he just got the hard way-he can tell that these people are tough and they don't give anything away easily to an outsider, especially not their approval, not even to a boy. This isn't his school gym.

"The kid's a natural" he hears someone say.

"If he gets any more practice, he's gonna knock your socks off, Vinnie-watch out!"

"Give the boy his five bucks, Vinnie."

"Yeah, pay up."

Vinnie looks mad for just a moment but then he relents on his grudge and smiles as he fishes a five dollar bill out of his pocket, handing it over and nodding.

"Okay, okay,you did it-here's your money; it was a good shot. Come back again kid, we'll do a rematch and maybe I'll give you some pointers next time" he says in a surprisingly good-natured way; the free beer he just got from buddies apparently having improved his mood.

And he decides he will, he'll keep coming back whenever he gets a chance because it feels good to be here, feels good to be part of something that has nothing to do with the other crap going on in his life. And it's nice to get the chance to be seen by the outside world in a different way.


	6. Chapter 6

A five gets waved in front of his face and a definite rush starts going through his whole body as the money, still warm from Vinnie's pocket, goes into his hand.

This is the exact moment that he's hooked for life. Because even though he'll end up moving on to bigger, brighter venues and even bigger bets in the future, the thrill is always the same each and every time, exactly as it was back then when he was just a school kid. It's more than just about the money or the approval or the winning-it's the idea that anything is possible, that the tide can turn at any minute bringing luck and great things your way, that time can screech to a halt and that you can find yourself in a place that you actually want to stay at.

And he desperately needs to feel that way again, especially right now. Because this latest lead, the one that looked so promising this morning, has just fizzled out just like all the rest and he still has no clue as to where the hell she is.

He wants to feel like miracles are real, that anything can happen, that fate will smile on him tonight and that he has more than a decent chance of finding her waiting for him back at their house when he walks through the door, with his daughter in her arms.

Most of all, he needs a reason to come home and to want to stay there.

His daughter. He wonders if her two front teeth are out all the way and if she's eating real food now; if she's sitting up all by herself and maybe starting to crawl. Does she still have that little pink bunny that she couldn't fall asleep without and the soft purple blanket that she holds onto for dear life that he got for her on a whim?

Will Christine even remember him anymore, or will she start crying the minute he picks her up and takes her from her mother's arms? That one thought may be the most lacerating of all.

And what if it's worse than all that? If Bones isn't there tonight, then when will he see either of them again? Will Christine be walking, talking by then? Will anything be left of his relationship with Bones, the woman he doesn't even know how not to love even though he's raw and smarting from her absence, or will everything they have be gone just like the swirls of smoke coming out of that long-ago pool hall?

He sees them everywhere these days-in every corner play lot, sitting at restaurants, walking down the street; and it hurts, because even as his heart leaps when he sees even a passing resemblance, deep down he knows it's not them-it can't be. But mostly he sees them at home, Christine filling the empty rooms with her gurgles and her smiles, Bones filling his life with everything that she is and everything she does. It's the reason he stays late at work, surreptitiously working on her case when no one's around, and why he spends whatever time he can spare from this so-far barren search stewing at the firing range or at the gym, hitting and shooting imaginary people as replacements for the one animal he really wants to get.

It's also why, when almost everyone else in the city is sleeping, he walks the streets for hours on end, meeting with anyone and everyone who might have something to spill, doing it face to face so that sick bastard can't get a hold of anything he finds out. He should have just thrown him out of that window and taken his chances.

The fact is that he can't bear to be alone in that house anymore, with all their things mocking his loss. Christine's toys, Bones' jewelry still sitting on top of her dresser, the family pictures that are growing more and more outdated with every torn page from the calendar. Everything is a reminder that they had something amazing that is now gone, and that the two most important women in his life may not be coming back for a long, long time. He's been thinking it for a while, but tonight, for some reason, it finally gets acknowledged: he's reached his limit, and he can't take anymore of the way things are.

And looking through those smudged pool hall windows, his hair and jacket soaked through by the drizzle that has now turned to rain, his heart aches and his fingers automatically flex, the remembered feel of a smooth wood cue in his hand already making them burn.

Luck. Miracles. Possibilities. All available to him tonight, right now, for a price, and all he has to do is walk through the door of that no-name dive.

It would be a novelty to forget about how lonely he feels, to pretend he doesn't care about why she didn't tell him, why she couldn't trust him. Just another over-tired, anonymous man out to obliterate the memories of the day, waiting his turn to lose himself in the moment, like everybody else.

"Hey dude, you need something? You've been hanging around out there for a while" a muscled guy who's probably the bouncer asks while sticking his head out the door into the rain.

"Either come on in and play, or move on, okay buddy? It's starting to freak people out."

His palms are sweating despite the cold, and he fists his hands even deeper into his pockets hoping for some kind of reassurance even as his feet are starting to propel him closer towards the gates of hell. But then, his fingers bump into a jumble of change-and something else. It's his Pop's medal, the one that's supposed to protect travelers and pilgrims against all sorts of evil as they go on their personal quests, all tangled up with his worn poker chip. Together, they're more than just good luck charms; they're lifelines and reminders of the kind of person he's supposed to be, and he suddenly grips them hard, pressing them between his fingers over and over again just like he did that ten dollar bill all those years ago.

After a minute he waves at the guy and walks on by; he's not a kid anymore in need of a hideout, and he's not staying.

Because that pool hall could never hold the strong, moral man that he knows Bones is desperately trying to get back to. There's no room in there for the good, loving father that his daughter will hopefully be happy to see one day. That man belongs in his house-in their house-doing everything he can to put his family back together again even on this, the darkest of nights.

Temptation fades with each passing step and he finds himself praying for one more win.

And this time, he's sure that God's going to pick sides; he has to.


End file.
